Derry can do funny things to people's memories, burying the ones that it doesn't want them to recall and sometimes creating shallow new ones in their place. New ones that people accept readily, when the truth is awful enough and their subconscious is willing to do anything to ignore reality.
For Robbie, this story is harder to resist. Here he is, on a small town street that already looks like home. Old growth trees, tidy lawns replete with bushes, gingerbread porches. He is home in New England. In - Derry.
His mind doesn't even fight being a child, takes it in almost by osmosis. The small hands on the porch rail, how tall it is against him. He'd have to jump to sit on the railing. Hasn't he wished for years that he could go back and do it all over again? Do it all right? This is your chance, something whispers through his brain. Here you are, small and unscarred, on the porch of your buddy Bill's house, in your t-shirt and Keds.
When Rich first starts talking, it does nothing to stop Robbie from falling headfirst into the story. It's been raining for a week. The power's out at home. He's bored, and he's gone to see if his friend's still sick. Blue blazes is as much a part of this 1950s era as his plain white t-shirt.
His name is what snaps him out of it. "No, I'm - Rich?"
If he sounds confused, it's because he's instantly confused about why he was going to say Richie before he'd finished recognizing Rich as Rich. It was almost like he thought... like he thought...
But it's gone, whatever it was. Richie, Bill, Derry, the blackout, home - everything slips cleanly out of his mind, like a newspaper boat down a gutter.
"Cripes, you look like twelve!" Once he looks at the other boy, really looks at him, it's obviously Rich. The chin, the nose... it's exactly what Robbie would have expected in an old photograph of Rich, and that's reassuring against the sudden emptiness of his head. He was thinking about something, what was it? Robbie looks around at the rain, the houses, his own skinny bare arms and then turns back to Rich. "This looks... normal. Normal for us, not space normal."
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For Robbie, this story is harder to resist. Here he is, on a small town street that already looks like home. Old growth trees, tidy lawns replete with bushes, gingerbread porches. He is home in New England. In - Derry.
His mind doesn't even fight being a child, takes it in almost by osmosis. The small hands on the porch rail, how tall it is against him. He'd have to jump to sit on the railing. Hasn't he wished for years that he could go back and do it all over again? Do it all right? This is your chance, something whispers through his brain. Here you are, small and unscarred, on the porch of your buddy Bill's house, in your t-shirt and Keds.
When Rich first starts talking, it does nothing to stop Robbie from falling headfirst into the story. It's been raining for a week. The power's out at home. He's bored, and he's gone to see if his friend's still sick. Blue blazes is as much a part of this 1950s era as his plain white t-shirt.
His name is what snaps him out of it. "No, I'm - Rich?"
If he sounds confused, it's because he's instantly confused about why he was going to say Richie before he'd finished recognizing Rich as Rich. It was almost like he thought... like he thought...
But it's gone, whatever it was. Richie, Bill, Derry, the blackout, home - everything slips cleanly out of his mind, like a newspaper boat down a gutter.
"Cripes, you look like twelve!" Once he looks at the other boy, really looks at him, it's obviously Rich. The chin, the nose... it's exactly what Robbie would have expected in an old photograph of Rich, and that's reassuring against the sudden emptiness of his head. He was thinking about something, what was it? Robbie looks around at the rain, the houses, his own skinny bare arms and then turns back to Rich. "This looks... normal. Normal for us, not space normal."